


the devil's right there in the details

by IncognitoDuck11



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bathing/Washing, Chronic Pain, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Head Shaving, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Obsessive thoughts, POV Second Person, Polyamory, Religious Guilt, Self-Indulgent, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, We live in a society, and imagine myself in a supportive romantic relationship with sparia, but then i figured it might help somebody else, fibromyalgia, here ya go I guess, i wasn't going to post this, internalized ableism, listen i just needed to vent, soooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoDuck11/pseuds/IncognitoDuck11
Summary: It was a paradox, you supposed, to judge yourself like a god, to put yourself up so high and mighty but think so little of yourself.
Relationships: Aria Montgomery/Reader, Spencer Hastings/Aria Montgomery, Spencer Hastings/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	the devil's right there in the details

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely a self-indulgent fic involving my favorite comfort characters well... comforting me. It's a bit heavy at first, but then we get to Sparia so just hang tight.
> 
> Please heed the tags just in case and also read here: 
> 
> There are mentions of passive suicidal thoughts and also the dangerous action of binding for too long. I just got my binder a couple days ago and already I'm doing that like a dumbass. Don't be me. There are mentions of SYMPTOMS of OCD, which I have, but I haven't been properly diagnosed or anything yet, which is why I tagged it as "Obsessive Thoughts" instead of "Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder". I don't want to misrepresent people with OCD by saying I have it when I might not. I also recently shaved my head for multiple reasons, including gender expression and making self-care easier, and wanted to express the feelings that went along with that. And if my talking about my negative experience with the Christian god offends you, then maybe don't read. There is also some internalized ableism in this fic. Please know that I oftentimes direct these incorrect views at myself and absolutely don't believe that people with disabilities are weak or inferior. This is just the message that society has pushed onto me and that I've struggled heavily with. 
> 
> Again this is the most personal thing I have ever posted, but feel free to relate to it and see if you can recognize any combination of your own experiences in mine. And please, everybody, be kind to yourself. You deserve it. I deserve it, and it's taken me so long to realize that. Also, this fic is an amalgamation of my past struggles. I am relatively okay right now, but there was a time when I wasn't. That time wasn't very long ago, so I still vividly remember all of these feelings. But don't worry, I'm doing better than I ever have!
> 
> Title from "Looking Too Closely" by Fink

-.-.-.-

You buried yourself under the heavy weight of the quilt, shame pressing down on you like a stack of cinder blocks. It was too warm under there, you were sweating what with the heating pad on your back turned up to max, but you simply stayed sprawled on your stomach, legs twisted up in the sheets, clutching your pillow and willing yourself not to cry. Because you shouldn’t be crying, you should be acting like a normal fucking adult. You shouldn’t be acting like this useless lump of unproductivity, you should be getting things done. You had so much to do that it was starting to pile up, and you couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand it and yet… you couldn’t find the willpower to get out of bed, didn’t have the energy. You especially didn’t have the energy to shower or brush your teeth. You didn’t care about yourself, so why should you waste time taking care of you? Of taking care of this gross, weak little excuse for a human being? There were much more important things to worry about. 

Like getting a job. Being a productive member of society. You didn’t think, in all honesty, that you deserved to take up space without _paying_ for it, proving your worth, earning your keep. You didn’t deserve to exist if you weren’t being useful, if you were just crying about everything all the time. The weak get picked off. They get eaten. They die. 

It was just natural.

Aria had mentioned seeing a therapist a few times, but you’d become so nervous about the prospect of spilling your guts to a stranger that your body had begun to hurt again, sharp pain lancing through your chest, painful enough that you thought it might be a heart attack, though you were young and otherwise healthy. Your knees ached and every step felt like they might just give out and send you tumbling to the floor. Walking felt like wading through water; it was like your limbs had weights strapped to them. The doctors had called it fibromyalgia once, but you were half convinced that it was all fake, just another excuse to not take responsibility for your life, and you believed that the doctors thought so too. Telling a therapist about it would get you labeled as an attention-seeking hypochondriac by them as well, so, instead of going to therapy, you’d pushed through everything. 

Until now, apparently. 

Now it felt like things were gaining on you. The noise in your head was getting louder, demanding your attention like a warning light on a vehicle’s dashboard, and at this point you couldn't even drag yourself out of bed. It was getting bad, but you had no idea what you were supposed to do about it. You felt helpless. You couldn’t solve the problem with a simple solution, you couldn’t even _see_ the problem, and you wanted to stop because of it. You wanted to abandon this metaphorical car on the highway, run into the wilderness, let somebody else take over for you. You wanted to cease to exist. Because uncertainty made you more nervous than you already were. Because you didn’t have the energy to look for a solution on your own, and you were too much of a coward to ask for help, flag somebody down. 

Maybe it was a matter of pride. Maybe you were being egotistical, dramatic. You probably were. You usually were dramatic and full of yourself. Some days you only thought about yourself, over and over, on a loop, and some days you cried over spilled milk. It was all very selfish, you thought. Another flaw in your being. 

You were a very flawed creature. You’d asked for forgiveness from God Himself before, because it was your fault, not His. That’s what they told you when you sat in those hard, unforgiving pews, hunched and sweating with the weight of so many righteous gazes upon you. God was perfect. God made you perfect, so why were you going against it all? You thought it might be the Devil leading you astray. Because doubt is the Devil’s greatest weapon, and you harbored so much of it that it was constantly spilling out of you. 

You were always questioning yourself. Did you lock the door? Did you wash your hands long enough? Did thinking about driving your car into oncoming traffic make you a menace? Did it make you an awful, evil person to be holding a knife and only thinking about plunging it into your girlfriends’ chests? You thought about it over and over, until you were shaking and tearing up and you couldn’t let yourself cut a carrot for fear of losing control. For fear of snapping. You let them make dinner because you couldn’t let the Devil win. 

The irony was that you didn’t even believe in god or the devil. Not anymore. But you couldn’t let them go. You couldn’t rest, because they were like the shadowy corners of your bedroom that you’d hid under the covers from as a child. You had to flip the light switch on to banish them, but you were too paralyzed to get out of bed and do so. Because flipping that switch, looking for the answer to existence itself, was death. It was stepping into a void where something might grab your ankles, yank you under. But you would only know the answer when you took that leap. You were uncertain and uncertainty made you nervous. You wanted to die just to find out, just to _know_ if you could breathe, if you could live how you needed to. 

Of course, your girlfriends had insisted that you _could_ live how you needed to. You could take up space without paying for it. You wouldn’t hurt them or anyone else in any way by doing so. They trusted you, they loved you, you thought, but you _were_ hurting them really. Because your feelings were dangerous. Always. And what if you loved them so much that you smothered them? What if they ran away like your father, started waving you off like your mother? What if one day they woke up and saw you for what you were, and they laughed at how pathetic your tiny mind really was, wrinkled their noses in disgust at your ugly, mortal flesh? Because their love felt godly. And in the past god had done nothing but reject you, spat in your face and damned you to an eternity of suffering. He damned you for loving in the first place, for loving the wrong people in the wrong way. So you were terrified of these otherworldly beings doing the same. 

You knew they weren’t really goddesses. You knew how damaging worshipping them like that might be. They were human. Humans deserved to be held to reasonable standards, forgiven even if they can’t reach them. Except for you maybe. You didn’t feel human at all. You felt like a parasite, like something evil and wrong. You were too much for anybody to handle, but you were expecting people to accept you how you were all the same. You wanted people to like you. You didn’t want people to leave you. You just latched on and never let go. 

So it might be for the best if you left your girlfriends before you did any more damage, if you swore to never get close to anyone ever again. To protect other people first and foremost. To protect _yourself_. Because you were selfish and egotistical. 

Maybe other people didn’t need your protection or your forgiveness, though. And maybe you didn’t deserve to judge yourself so harshly. You weren’t a god, after all. You weren’t better than anyone else. It was a paradox, you supposed, to judge yourself like a god, to put yourself up so high and mighty but think so little of yourself. And if you judged yourself like that, where did you draw the line? You could easily fall into judging other people, too, projecting your nasty traits onto them, making them hurt. You didn’t want to hurt people. You were terrified of hurting people. So terrified that you kept your mouth shut and let people walk all over you. But maybe making people uncomfortable wouldn’t be hurting them. Maybe you could cut yourself some slack. Because maybe, just maybe, you were human, too. Maybe you deserved compassion and maybe you didn’t deserve to be with an abuser, the one banging about inside your head.

You’d never considered self-harm as something that applied to you. You were always too afraid to do physical damage to yourself, so maybe you’d turned it into a mental onslaught instead. And maybe after all those years of mentally beating yourself up, your brain had tried to defend itself, made your body hurt just as badly, attacked you with physical pain so you’d stop waging a war in your mind. And maybe it had worked. 

Maybe going from straight A student to high school dropout was a lesson. Maybe it was a sign not to worry about getting a good grade in life and worry about your health, your happiness instead. It’d felt like a purgatory at first, having to quit school. But it was better than going, you supposed, because you’d eventually started breaking down in tears at the thought of walking into that building, of hiding yourself from your peers per usual, and your arms and back had ached all day from carrying your heavy textbooks, from dragging yourself from class to class, putting in tremendous effort where maybe you shouldn't have. 

You knew that Spencer understood throwing in the towel when necessary. You could empathize with the story she’d told about being sent to Radley, a mental institution, in high school. You could empathize with the feeling of being so overwhelmed that you just shut down, and Aria understood that as well. Aria escaped into her head all the time. Doing that was a commonality that linked you three, and having a toxic mess of a mind was another. 

You’d helped ground Aria during her panic attacks and held Spencer through nights where she couldn’t stop putting pressure on herself. They’d return the favor, too, propping you up when you were struggling. Because maybe that’s what caring about someone was. 

And you had an example of that coming to drag you back to life. 

You heard Aria’s footsteps pad into the bedroom, felt her worried presence hovering beside you. 

"Babe? “ she said, and a pressure welled up behind your eyes at the impossible gentleness of her tone, your tears threatening to fall. 

You were sick. Not defective. Not evil. _Sick_ , you tried to tell yourself. 

It wasn’t sticking. Maybe you just weren’t cut out for self-compassion. 

When you didn't respond, you heard Aria sigh, felt the bed dip as she sat on the edge of it. "I'm going to run you a bath, okay?" The covers were pulled carefully back, and you peeked up at your girlfriend, who rested a gentle hand on your cheek. "Let me take care of you." 

And at that, you finally broke. You squeezed your eyes shut as the tears started to fall, and your body shook once with a heavy sob that you just couldn't hold back any longer. Aria shouldn't have to take care of you, she shouldn't have to waste her big heart on someone like you. You, who was too afraid to get proper help like a coward. You, who'd been wasting away these past few days. 

You, who hated yourself, so how could you even begin to love another?

You tried to communicate this through your pathetic blubbering, but Aria stubbornly insisted on stroking your short, oily waves of hair, calmly shushing you, and it did soothe you somewhat. Maybe you could let Aria help you. Just this once. The sheets smelled like sweat, made you itch, and you did need a change of scenery anyway, you supposed. 

"Okay," you finally sniffled, and Aria's concerned expression softened into something a bit happier. Yeah. Okay. If it made Aria feel better, you could let her do this. 

You turned over onto your back as Aria went into the ensuite to fill the tub up, listened to the roar of the tap turning on, and watched as your girlfriend bustled back and forth between rooms, gathering you fresh pajamas from the bureau and then taking them down the hallway, presumably to pop them in the dryer so they'd be warm when you got out of the bath. The prospect of cozy clothes made you feel a little bit more enthusiastic about this whole thing, so you managed to push yourself upright, just as Aria came back with a glass of water and a granola bar in hand. 

"Nice," she said brightly, when she saw that you were sitting up. "Baby steps. Now have a snack while I set everything up." 

While Aria went back to bustling about, you followed her meager orders, taking tiny sips of the water so it didn't shock your empty stomach and nibbling at the peanut butter granola bar. You managed to finish your snack in a few minutes, and then Aria poked her head out of the bathroom to tell you that the bath was ready. 

Already, you could smell lavender, see the steam wafting through the door, and you saw flickering candle light. It looked heavenly, and it was enough incentive that you threw the covers off your lap and pushed yourself out of bed. Your limbs felt heavy as you shuffled into the dim haze of the bathroom, but you smiled when you saw Aria standing there, stripped down to a tank top and shorts, her hair pinned back in a ponytail and her hands on her hips. 

"In," was all she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, and you obliged, peeling off your clothes and stepping into the silky water. You felt a lump in your throat. As much as you loved baths, they never helped your dysphoria, that awful thing that made you hate yourself twice as much, but between the dark of the room and the water clouded over by the creamy oils added to it, you didn’t have to look at yourself. “Okay?” Aria asked, and you nodded, leaning back and settling in. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured as Aria kneeled beside the tub, grabbing a cup and filling it with water. Because you felt sincerely like you owed her an apology for everything wrong about you. “I’m sorry for being so messed up.” 

“You’re just struggling right now, babe. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” You closed your eyes as Aria poured the water over your head, dampening your hair.

“I know.” You listened as the cap of the shampoo bottle popped open and Aria began to lather some into your hair. “It’s just hard to remember that.” 

“You have us to remind you,” she said. “When Spence gets home, she’ll tell you the exact same thing. So please don’t worry about it anymore, babe. Not right now, at least.” 

Your muscles were gradually relaxing as the water washed over your head, rinsing out the shampoo, and with Aria’s gentle command to stop worrying about it, you managed to somewhat block out those negative thoughts swirling around, dark as oil and thick as quicksand inside your head.

Aria abandoned the cup and took up a washcloth, wetting it and then delicately washing your face with it. When that was done, you let your girlfriend wash your shoulders, sat up so she could scrub your back, and then you let the rest of you soak for a few more minutes before Aria stood up and grabbed a fluffy towel. She held it open and you stepped out of the tub, allowing Aria to dry you off. It was warm, and you suspected that she'd put it in the dryer alongside your clothes. Your clothes, which you quickly fumbled into, your stomach turning the longer you were naked. Your outfit consisted of your favorite pair of boxer briefs and a baggy, comfortable t-shirt to drown out the bulge of your chest, and Aria sat you on the toilet seat cover to slip a pair of fuzzy socks on you. You felt a bit ridiculous, but also pampered. 

Aria didn't let you go back to bed, claiming she needed to wash the bedding first, which was absolutely true. Instead, you went into the living room, where Aria had set up a nest of blankets and throw pillows on the couch. The Netflix menu was waiting on the TV, and you took your time picking something light to watch as Aria went to put the sheets in the wash. She came back a few minutes later and snuggled up to you, and really, you felt a little bit better. 

You also had an idea. 

“Hey,” you broached, cautious. “Do you think you could do something for me?” 

Aria smiled. “Yeah. Anything.” 

You took a very deep breath, preparing yourself to make this request. It was practical, but still. It was kind of odd, kind of _too much_ . You asked anyway because that’s what self-care is, right? Making people uncomfortable in this way is not _hurting_ them. “Could you ask Spence to stop by the store and get a pair of clippers? For my hair?” 

Aria didn’t seem too put off, just surprised. She reached up to run her fingers through your hair, curious. “I thought you liked your hair this way.” 

You did. Really, you did. You’d chopped all the length off one evening with a pair of kitchen scissors, not caring how it looked. You’d just needed it _gone_ . They hadn’t looked at you like you were crazy afterwards, either, just helped you sweep up the mess of hair on the bathroom floor. You were taking baby steps then. You hadn’t yet acknowledged the weight of the sense of _wrongness_ that hovered around your gender identity. You knew now that you were trans, even if you were having so much trouble accepting it. Even if you were starting to spiral into self-loathing. But now, you thought, you wanted to start treating yourself better. That meant no more wearing your binder for longer than recommended. You’d already formed a bad habit out of doing that, pushing your body to its limits to punish yourself, even though binding was supposed to help you heal. And no more wielding your birth name as a weapon or intentionally misgendering yourself out of spite, out of some internalized phobia of being trans. 

No more bullying yourself, starting today. 

You’d already beat yourself up enough today, anyway, and thank god you’d come to a healthier conclusion that ever before. Or what felt healthier, at least. You still weren’t entirely sure that it would stick. You’d probably go back to hating yourself in a few days. But maybe this time you wouldn’t lie in bed and torture yourself. Maybe you’d remind yourself that you were human, too. Maybe you would get up, brush your teeth, shower, get dressed, eat food, drink water. And maybe you would have to go back to bed after doing all of that, because it would be exhausting. Maybe you could forgive yourself for not having the energy and maybe you could applaud yourself for doing what you can. 

“I do,” you told Aria. “I like it, it’s just… time for a change. And if I don’t have much hair then I don’t have to worry about keeping it clean.” 

Aria’s eyes were kind, glinting with understanding. “I get that. Yeah, babe, let me text Spencer.” 

She did, and once she put her phone down, she cuddled into your side, ready to watch the funny cartoon you’d picked out. 

Hours later, you were roused from a doze by the familiar jingle of keys in the front door. You sat up and stretched, yawning, looking around for Aria and finding her over in the kitchen, standing over a pot of something on the stove. It smelled like chickpea noodle soup, a recipe that Aria’s grandma passed down and one of your favorite dishes among the multitude of recipes that your very talented girlfriends could make, and it brightened your spirits a little. And speaking of girlfriends, Spencer was just coming in the door. 

She kicked her pumps off and shucked off her coat before kissing Aria hello and setting her briefcase and one of the reusable shopping bags she kept in her car down on the island counter, and then came over to flop down beside you on the couch, a small, roughly book-sized box in hand. On the outside was a picture of the clippers and all that came with them, and you took the box carefully from her, reverently tearing through the tape keeping the top closed. 

Inside was a whole kit. The clippers. Three guards. Scissors and a comb and everything. It even had a rectangular bag to store everything in. Your eyes were starting to well up again. This is exactly what you needed. 

“Thank you,” you said timidly, like she might all of a sudden take it back or something. “I just… I…” 

Spencer smiled at you, nudged your shoulder teasingly, leaned over and kissed you on the temple. “Anything for my most handsome man,” she said when she pulled away. 

Your face flushed with heat. Something fluttered in your chest. You felt validated. Loved.

It was always strange. But definitely not a bad feeling. 

You took the kit into the bathroom, Spencer following you and Aria staying behind to vigilantly watch over the soup. Aria called out good luck, though, and you told her, confidently, goofily, that you didn’t need it. 

Your mood was increasing tenfold, and as you turned the clippers on to test them, you were glad to see they worked right out of the box and were fully charged. You turned them on the lowest speed and put on the longest guard. 

Then you started shaving. 

Off came chunks of hair, and the more you removed, the better you felt. Spencer helped with the back, trimming carefully, folding your ears forward to get behind them. Her touch was soothing. 

When you looked in the mirror afterwards, you could finally recognize yourself. 

And you didn’t hate the person you saw, either. 

-.-.-.-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read! You can leave a comment and let me know what you think if you want :D


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